Sauce: A chaotic theory, my precious.

Speaking of the Lord of the Rings. What would happen if you crossed the worlds of LOTR and Jurassic Park? My inner 8-year old is casting doom and destruction on my head for having such a blasphemous thought, but too bad for her.

Here’s what I think would happen: A lot of people would die, obviously, but it’s okay because most of them would be orcs anyway. Then at the end, the tyrannosaurus would eat Sméagol and the ring and everyone would be chasing him, waiting for him to poop it out, but before that could happen, velociraptors would lure him over the edge of the flaming abyss inside Mt. Doom, so the raptors would actually save the day! And then anyone who wasn’t already dead would die and velociraptors would take over Middle Earth, except for Gandalf and one hobbit of his choice and Shadowfax, because Shadowfax can run 80mph. They would make haste for the grey havens and live peacefully there. Until the raptors had the urge to migrate.

There. I think that’s fairly true to the spirit of both stories. Calm down, inner 8-year old. You’ll be fine in twenty years or so.

Comments

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive...

Sauce: Peeved - A Ditty.

Hello world, welcome to the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. It helps if you sing it with gusto. (Hint: UIKEYINPUTDOWNARROWgive “favorite” and “chocolate” three syllables.) Dun dun dun... ...If you’d rather eat spaghetti With butter, And if petting armadillos makes your bitty heart flutter, If you wear twenty-three inch plugs And you snack on creepy bugs, And you turn off the radio before Your very favorite song ends, If you dance to rapping only And you never just be lonely, Then I think we cannot ever quite be friends. If you like to play the tuba And get thrills at going scuba Diving with a pack of grumbly-tumbly sharks, If you stick Q-tips up your nose And knit socks for all your toes And deface all the bathrooms in the parks, If you get joy from picking peanuts Out from every tin of mixed nuts And don’t laugh at jokes that center on Depends, If you run away from cats And feed cho...

Noodles: There are just some things you can’t ask your doctor.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me. I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp. Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around. Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much. But that’s not the point. If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend. Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?” The answer is undecided...

The Password’s Lasagna.

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